Cyvasse
by Asredasdorne
Summary: An AU where Theon is raised under the roof of Mance Rayder and is trained to take back the Iron Islands from his uncle while seeking vengeance. Not knowing he's a Stark, Theon sleeps with Robb, making the other fall in love with him. That is until they meet on the battlefield. Mostly Robb/Theon, Willas/Sansa and in Theon's pespective. Other POVs: Willas, Aegon/Griff, Robb, and Jon.
1. Prologue

**ROBB**

"I'm beginning to regret this."

The singer threw his head back and laughed, his raspy voice filling the room. The flames cast an orange glow upon his handsome face and made the thin layer of sweat on his skin glisten. "It's too late to take it back," he murmured. He pressed closer until their breaths were one. "I wasn't that bad, was I?"

Robb scanned his face, taking in the high cheekbones, tall nose, and the tiny scar that severed his right brow into two. He settled for his eyes. Beautiful they were, a blue that leaned to green so it gave one the impression that his eyes were oceans. They were different from Robb's pale Tully blue eyes, eyes that he shared with all but two of his siblings. A lock of the singer's ragged dark hair fell over the left one. Robb brushed it back, tucking it behind his ear. "No, it wasn't bad," he admitted, earning another one of the singer's snarky grins. His fingers lingered on his collarbone. They moved to the other boy's nape when he pulled him ever closer and pressed his mouth against his.

"Good. I hate to be the one who spoils your first time." Still grinning, he pulled back the furs and strode towards the fireplace. Naked he was, but the singer wasn't embarrassed about it. Robb saw the red lines he'd made on the other's skin with his fingernails. "But I'm also thinking that I shouldn't have. My father warned me not to sleep with anyone tonight—but when did that stop me? Also, you're too young and I'm too...experienced."

Robb felt himself flush. "I am not too young. I'm almost a man grown."

"You can't be more than fourteen, right?"

"I—" His fourteenth nameday had only been three days ago, a week before his bastard brother Jon's. And though Robb had gotten gifts in the form of swords and shields, and even a war horse from the Greatjon, he was not a yet a man grown. His mother still treated him like he was as old as his baby brother Rickon, and his father wasn't much different.

Robb bit his lip. It was a habit that he'd never grown out of despite his mother's constant scolding. You're scarring your lip, she always said. If she found out what he'd done, his mouth would be the least of her problems. He had never even gotten properly drunk yet.

The singer laughed again. "You probably never thought you'd be bedded by a man, either," he said as he took a seat on the edge of the bed. He stared at him as he brushed Robb's hair back. "Your hair is the loveliest I've ever seen. Kissed by fire, you know."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means lucky." He crawled on top of him and began pressing light kisses on Robb's neck. "I know a girl with red hair but yours is prettier." He kissed his chest, his lips, then the tip of his nose. "You're prettier than her, too."

Robb shuddered as his teeth worked on the side of his neck. "Um…" he began. The singer lifted his head and Robb flushed again. "Um, I never…your name…"

"Names aren't important." The other boy paused then grinned wryly. "But don't think I'm a whore or I'll have your pretty little head on a spike."

"I have to know."

"Why? It's not like we're ever going to see each other again."

Robb flinched, but he should have expected the words. Though the other boy's company was great, there was no way his lady mother and lord father would accept him. Robb's duty was to learn all that he needed to learn to become lord of Winterfell. He wasn't supposed to be lying naked in bed with boys. His father had ordered him to get to know the townsfolk of his bannermen. Robb was sure he didn't mean it this way.

"It's annoying to refer to you as 'the singer',' he said, choosing his words carefully. "I want to call you something decent."

"How about 'first fuck'?"

Robb glared at him.

"Alright…It's Theon."

Theon. The name was common to the north. There had been a Theon among the Starks once. The Hungry Wolf, they called him, and the stone model of him did look half-starved. He had to be a northman, then. And not a commoner. His wit and manner made that certain.

"You're from the north, then?" Robb asked. He slid his hands up Theon's back, then down again until they rested on his hips. "But you're not from here."

"You can say that." His eyes glimmered with amusement. "I'm guessing you're from the north, too. The way you're looking at me right now says that much."

He leaned down and nibbled at an earlobe. "So what's your name?" he whispered, his breath hot against his skin.

"R-robb," he stammered. "My name's Robb."

"Robb of the north and Theon of the north. We're concealing our identities, aren't we?"

You can't know the truth, Robb thought as Theon lifted him and sat him on his lap. You can't know I'm a Stark and no one can know I slept with you.

But his resistance died when the calloused hands found his face. And Robb shed his honor for the night and thought only of kissing Theon and wishing for a moment that he had not been born a Stark.

**THEON**

He left the boy in the room, naked and asleep in the featherbed. Theon had thought of waking him up to say goodbye but time was running. If he had a paper and quill, he would have left a note, but they'd brought nothing but food, silver, and a few clothes. Theon didn't even know why he bothered to think of him. It wasn't like him to grow attached to the people he bedded. But the boy drew him like a moth to a fire, and Theon wondered if it had something to do with his hair. Kissed by fire. The words had repeated themselves over and over again in his head while he unsheathed his dagger and took a lock of the boy's hair, little enough to not be missed.

He found his supposed father at the stables, wide awake and ready for travel. "You've had some fun last night," Mance remarked as he tossed him a hunk of black bread. Theon's free hand quickly went to his hair which was a bigger mess than usual. "Who was the wench?"

"Last night happened to be a boy as green as summer," Theon replied casually.

The older man sighed in mock disapproval. "Little Kraken, you never did learn the difference between a man and a woman." He ruffled his hair affectionately like any father would. "When you get back your Iron Islands, will that stop?"

Immediately, Theon froze. That again. "I'm not going back," he muttered, his good mood fading. He tore his breakfast angrily. "You know that. There's nothing to go back to, anyway."

"You can't stay beyond the Wall, forever, you know. The Seastone Chair is yours by right and we need you to take it. The rest will come easy."

"I'm a wilding," he argued as he straddled the garron Mance had stolen for him. "I'm not a Greyjoy anymore."

Mance shrugged but the look in his eyes was disbelief. Theon hated him for it. When he was a child, the idea of becoming the ruler of the Iron Islands—the home he barely remembered—thrilled him. But years of living under Mance's roof had changed all that. He was no king. He was no singer, either. He was a wilding, a hunter and raider, snow not salt. Mance should know that.

"I can never go back."

"All you need is luck, Little Kraken. Luck and wits and you can have everything you should have had at the first place."

Luck and wits, Theon thought bitterly. Even if he did want to take it back, he had too many enemies to face. His uncles, of course, were the main ones. But there was the Usurper and the wolf lord, the two men who'd butchered his family when he was five. Theon still remembered the scent of blood and smoke. He remembered being torn from his mother's breast by a bald man who smelled of lavenders, then handed to a man who smelled of manure. Then blood and smoke again and the sound of the manure man's dying scream. The rest was a blur and nothing settled until he bumped into Mance, travelling back to his frozen realm. Nothing was right until he found Mance.

Luck. Perhaps all he needed was luck. He had been lucky enough to survive the war, had been lucky enough to find Mance before the outlaws found him.

_But do I want it back?_

The thought did not leave him. Confused, he slipped his hand inside the pocket of his coat and pulled out the bundle that carried Robb's hair. Luck, he thought once more, as his hand closed around it and lifted it to his heart.


	2. Scent of Snow

**THEON**

"Florent?"

"Fox-head in a circle of flowers."

"Tully?"

"Silver trout against a field of red and blue."

"Stark?"

Theon clenched his teeth. "Grey direwolf. White field," he muttered. Mance paid no attention to the displeasure in his voice.

"Greyjoy?"

Theon slammed his hands on the table. The noise brought the attention to him. Tormmund the Giantsbane had a chicken leg half-way to his mouth. Even the Magnar had stopped to glare at Theon. Mance let the silence grow before sighing and bringing the flat of his dagger down Theon's knuckles. Yelping, he withdrew the hand, earning titters from those in the tent.

"Greyjoy?" Mance repeated, voice calm but eyes challenging. Theon tried a glare but Mance wouldn't even give him the satisfaction of looking away. Theon slumped in his seat, arms crossed, and muttered, "Gold kraken. Black field."

"Words?"

"We do not sow," Theon said, grudgingly. He scowled at the threadbare map of Westeros Mance had been forcing him to study since he took him in. Had Magnar not guarded it day and night, Theon would have gladly ripped it apart and tossed it to the Others. The map had been with the Magnar even before Theon was born, and he was the key to all their problems. Theon did not whether he should feel proud that he was chosen or ashamed that he was Mance's pawn. The wilding part of him felt it a great honor, but because Mance treated him like a Greyjoy still, he was not quite so sure. Things wouldn't be so complicated if King Robert and his dog hadn't killed his family. Then Theon would still be a Greyjoy and he'd belong to only one place.

"Food?" A crude wooden bowl filled with thin leek soup was thrust to him. Mance had brought the woman Dalla and her sister after his visit to the king's feast held at Winterfell. Mance would have forced him to come had Theon not gone to the mountains to hunt—and avoid the invitation. Theon had been to King's Landing many times already and he felt no fear there. The king, a great fat man who always seemed drunk, recognized him not at all. Theon had even had the pleasure to entertain him once in Prince Tommen's nameday, when the king requested he sing a few drinking songs. The Stark however where a different sort. Though Theon had never seen him, he heard that Lord Stark was a cold man who believed in his honor far too much to think of mercy. And he might recognize him, too. Theon had no idea what his brothers had looked like but if he resembled them in any way, Lord Stark would become suspicious and take him in for questioning.

But he would still have to face him soon. The Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, had died and in his stead was Lord Stark. The only good side to this was that Theon would have both of them in one place. It would be killing two birds with one stone. Though one particular bird would have to be smashed with a boulder several times before it could be proclaimed dead.

Theon accepted the bowl gladly and slurped the contents, all the while sensing Mance's dismay. Mance had taught him he'd come with skills that would lead to a person's death. The first was hunting, of course. His wilding brother and sisters were good enough hunters but when it came to fighting men, they were reckless. Theon relied on his stealth and swift-footedness when fighting was concerned. And another, the most important outside the battlefield, was charm. Mance had taught him the songs but Theon drew more attention to himself than Mance ever could. Theon supposed he must have gotten that skill from one of his relatives.

Victarion, the uncle who was currently sitting in his throne? No, Theon did not think so. He would meet Victarion face to face once he killed enough Starks and Baratheons to pacify him, but stories exchanged in taverns told him enough about his dour uncle. Theon did not think he got it from his father either who had been almost like Victarion, only a little merrier by an inch. His younger uncles Aeron and Euron, then. But from what he'd heard Aeron had become the priest of some strange god and Euron had been banished from the Iron Islands for seducing and impregnating his brother's wife. Euron had charm, true, but even Theon wasn't as cruel as the man he learned his uncle was.

Maybe his father didn't pass down anything but his cock. Or not. Mine is longer, he thought wickedly.

"My mother is alive, isn't she?" Theon asked, suddenly remembering Mance's report. The older man nodded. Theon thought he saw frustration in his eyes but it was gone too fast.

"When I'm through with my part and when I get the Iron Islands, can I see her?"

Mance shrugged. "Little Kraken, when you become king who will stop you?" Then he smiled and gazed at Theon proudly. "One day all of Westeros will be like us and every man won't have to do what they don't want to do. You'll be a good king. I trained you myself."

"You should be the one," Theon began but Mance cut him off with a laugh.

"Your blood is richer than mine and you never had the chance. Better you than me. I'd rather be the one singing songs of your valor." But then his eyes hardened and Theon saw him wave the others away. One by one they left, leaving only his wife, Dalla. He cleared his throat before he launched in on what was bothering him.

"The Stark pup—the eldest," he mused, "the boy seemed to recognize me at the feast. When Robert asked me to play a song for his friend, the boy sat up and stared at me with surprise. And afterward I thought I saw him looking for someone. You, I think."

Theon bristled. "Why would I associate myself with someone I'm going to kill? And a Stark." Theon's eyes narrowed. "Probably, he'd seen us playing at some lord's tourney. We've been posing as a father-and-son duo at every grand occasion. You know I'd never befriend one of those murderers' kin."

"You need not go so far as to kill the sons, Theon. Lord Stark and Robert Baratheon would do."

"No." Theon's anger flared. "Lord Stark only had to deal with my father yet he murdered my brothers and sister as well and he would have murdered me, too, had I not been taken away. Four heads and only then will I be satisfied. Two Starks and Two Baratheons. The fathers and their firstborns."

Mance sighed. "Firstborns only I hope. News travels fast. Some time after the feast one of the Stark pups fell off a tower and now lies unconscious in his bedchambers. A boy of seven, I think. If he doesn't die, he'll wake up a cripple."

"It would be more merciful to kill him now," Theon supposed. He thought then of replacing the oldest Stark with the younger one. But no. He'd already made his decision. And he thought it would also be better to let the boy continue living and suffer for it. They killed my family, he thought, so they brought this down on themselves.

"I'm going hunting," he told him, quickly standing up. He slung his longbow over one slim shoulder and was out before Mance could say anything. A stag and a wolf on four legs for today. Soon enough, a stag and wolf on two.

**ROBB**

Rickon saw it before he did. "Look!" the four-year-old cried, leaning out the window. Robb quickly grabbed him by the shoulder lest he fall off. "Look at that Robb!"

"Look at what?" Gently, he pushed his younger brother aside to see for himself. There was a black shape in the sky. As it came closer, Robb made out the grey-and-brown feathers of an eagle. It landed on the ledge and regarded both Starks with tawny eyes before offering its left foot. Tied around this was a piece of parchment, secured to the leg by a thin ribbon of Tyrell green. Robb took it cautiously. As soon as it was relieved of its burden, the eagle took flight and disappeared in the black night, much to Rickon's disappointment.

"What's it say? What's it say?" Rickon had clung to Robb when their mother took residence in Bran's bedchambers. While Robb was saddened by what had befallen his younger brother, he did not feel it fair that his mother spent most of her days grieving. With their father gone, Robb was Lord of Winterfell. And because Bran, Arya, and Sansa were not there to entertain him, Rickon trailed after him like a shadow, sobbing whenever Robb tried to leave him for a short time. Had Jon been there, he would have taken care of Rickon, but Jon was serving the Night's Watch now, and he wouldn't visit for a long time. Robb missed them all. Rickon was his brother but he was only a baby and did not even understand much of what was going on. He still called for their father even though Robb had told him many times that Lord Stark was the King's Hand now, and

Robb pulled Rickon to his lap and read the letter aloud. The words were written in an elegant script of dark green ink. "Willas Tyrell sends us his condolence for what happened to Bran," Robb explained as he folded the letter. "He's the heir to Highgarden."

"Old Nan says a snake killed his leg," Rickon informed him proudly.

"Close but not quite." Far from it. Willas Tyrell became a cripple only because he'd participated in a tourney at too young an age. Even men grown fell to the Red Viper, Oberyn Martell. Had Mace Tyrell enough sense, his son would still have use of both feet today.

"Rickon," he said, pulling the boy closer. His brother looked at him, Tully eyes wide with innocence. Of all Robb's siblings, it was Rickon who looked the most like him. But at his age, Robb had acted just as he had looked. Sweet and innocent. Rickon was young and didn't know much yet, but he was wilder than Arya and would be as bad as a wilding if Robb did not lecture him. "Rickon, when Bran wakes don't tease him. He won't be able to use his legs anymore so be sensitive."

"But he promised to teach me to climb," Rickon complained. "He promised and said when I was good enough I could see people coming to Winterfell from far away."

"I'm sorry, Rickon. Bran won't be climbing anymore."

"How about you, then? Can you teach me?"

"No. I'm Lord of Winterfell while Father is away. I won't have time for climbing."

To that, Rickon responded with a snarl and a kick. His young direwolf, the one with the black fur and hot green eyes, rose and chased after him. Robb's own wolf was lying near the hearth. Grey Wind's ears were flat against his head and he stared at Robb with the same sadness that he supposed were in his. My childhood days are over, Robb thought. And he was still two years shy of manhood. He sighed. Their lord father would stay in King's Landing for a very long time and while he was away it would be Robb feasting his bannermen and listening to Maester Luwin's advice. He wished the king had not made Lord Stark his hand and that Uncle Benjen had not approached Jon and put it in his head that he join the Night's Watch. He wished he could be out there, sparring with Jon, teaching Rickon a few pranks, throwing snow at Arya, or chasing Sansa with a fresh kill. He wished Bran was up one of the towers, teasing Jory Cassell and the other knights. But what Robb wished for most of all was that he see Theon at least one more time.

The boy wasn't easy to forget. Something about him made sure you never got rid of him. Robb remembered seeing him for the first time, sharing a few drinks at an inn while surrounded by the few knights his father had sent to keep him safe. Even before he began singing and playing that lute of his, Robb was already staring, wondering if he dare cross the line. When he stumbled in the stables, half-drunk as Theon was, he knew there was no going back. "You sing really well," he remembered saying before Theon kissed him.

They had only that one night together and Robb didn't even know who he really was. Yet he'd gotten drunk on him. Robb wondered if Theon even remembered him. It did not seem likely. Theon did say he was too experienced for the likes of Robb. The thought of him with others made him a little ill so he tried to think of something else.

But if his thoughts were not on Theon, they were on his siblings. Robb did not know why, but he worried for each of them. Bran, he worried for most of all even though Maester Luwin had assured him the troublesome part was long past. When he bid them farewell, Robb felt that even in King's Landing his sister's were not safe and that his bastard brother Jon was going to get in some terrible danger. Even Rickon worried him.

What was it? Robb felt a chill despite the warmth of the fire. With a short whistle, Grey Wind padded to him and climbed onto his lap. The pup was almost as big as one of the stray dogs roaming the castle grounds but the heat that his skin offered was always welcome to Robb. Yet this time he could not get comfortable. Winter is coming, he thought with growing distress.

**WILLAS**

"Come inside, Willas. You're going to miss the bedding."

She wrapped her arms around him and placed her chin on his shoulder. Though he was facing away, Willas knew she was standing on the tips of her toes. The thought amused him. You are near a woman grown, he thought. Yet you are still as small as the girl I used to read books to.

"Has Loras finally tired of dancing?" he asked, turning around to look at her. Margaery smiled at him, her large brown eyes sly as always. Or at least, sly when no one else was around. Willas thought it strange that his sister's suitors were always saying they would protect Margaery with all their life. But who would protect them from his cunning baby sister? Margaery could be as shrewd as the Queen of Thorns when given reason to be.

"Loras is hiding from me," she complained, earning a laugh from her older brother. "And Garlan's too focused with Leonette."

"You know I can't, Margaery. Even if I wanted to."

She did not seem to like that. But what choice did he have? He could not even walk without his cane.

"Let's go," he said simply and she gave her arm for him to take. Together they walked back to the Queen's Ballroom where the wedding feast was taking place. The scent of roses was strong here, caused by the special candles his lord father had ordered from Myr. While the smell seemed to please the guest, Willas could only think of what they must have cost. This whole wedding was costly. It was the first wedding of four so their father thought it should be special. Willas thought it would have been better if his father had left the budget to him like he had all his other duties.

_My father is not even dead yet I'm already lord of Highgarden_. _The things we do for love._

Family, duty, honor. Tully words yet they seemed more fitting for the Tyrells. Their father might be irresponsible but when it came to his children he wanted only the best. Just like Lady Olenna. This was the reason why, even at two-and-twenty Willas was not yet wed. His lord father wanted to give his firstborn a wife as beautiful as his sweet Margaery. And his grandmother wanted to give him a wife as smart as Margaery. Had Margaery not been his sister, their search would have ended years ago. They could search forever. No one is like Margaery, Willas thought as he stared at his little sister fondly. He could die without a wife and children and pass the position of lord to his younger brother. His children were his siblings and they would come running to him even if they were married and had more kids than they knew what to do with.

He gazed down at the newly wed. Garlan was dancing with his bride, a dainty girl of Fossaway stock. His grandmother had picked well. Both seemed happy with each other and the girl looked intelligent as well as beautiful. Garlan would brag to the other knights. His brother raised a hand when he caught him looking and he in turn raised his cup to the couple. Others had joined them. Willas grinned when he saw that Margaery had finally located Loras. Protesting, the young knight was dragged to the dancefloor and spun again and again by his sister.

I will not marry, he decided. I will not marry until all of them are settled. And if he no longer wanted to then that was fine with him. Highgarden could pass on to Garlan for all he cared.

**JON C.**

The tourney sword came down with a soft _woosh_. His knees buckled but the boy made no sound, much to Jon's surprise. But what was more shocking was the fact that the boy was being hit. He dropped the sack he'd slung over his shoulder and strode toward the boy and his punisher. Immediately, Rolly dropped the stick and raised his hands.

"Huh? Why'd you stop?" Aegon straightened himself, one hand rubbing his sore arse. He stared at the knight then at Jon.

"Why was he hitting you?" Jon asked. He reeled back a little when the boy got that seemingly melancholic gaze in his lilac eyes. Too much like Rhaegar, he thought miserably. With the exception of his hair, dyed a dark blue to conceal his identity, the boy was a younger version of the Silver Prince. Jon was thankful it ended in looks. While Aegon slipped to that despondency Rhaegar was so famous for from time to time, he was his mother's son all the way. His mother's son or his uncle's nephew. Jon did not think he would be able to stand being near him if he were Rhaegar in attitude, too.

Aegon smiled a little. "I told him to hit me if I talked back at every defeat." He raised his sword arm to show the bruises today's practice had given him. They stood out against the paleness of his skin, so many Jon did not know whether he should scold the boy or the knight. He settled instead for silence but this only seemed to worry his young prince.

No, not prince. King. One day Robert, Jon thought as he stared at the fifteen-year-old. One day he'll be sitting on the Iron Throne while you lay rotting in a dungeon.

"Practice makes perfect, Your Grace," he told him. "Come. I've brought some things for you."

"What?" Jon sighed. The king had gotten too much of Elia Martell who was no better than her snake of a brother. Even though he was near a man grown, Aegon still acted like a wild little boy. That was the Dornish blood's doing. But weren't all dragons unpredictable and wild by nature? Rhaegal hadn't been an exception, come to think of it. No one ever knew what the prince thought of, not even Jon, his closest friend. What was it that made Rhaegar so sad? Jon would never find out.

Aegon took a seat on a tree stump, his hands thrust inside the sack Jon had brought. Candied ginger, books about the ancient kings, fossils of strange creatures from Lys. Aegon's never ending curiosity was inherited from his Uncle Oberyn. He opened one of the heavy tomes and placed it on his lap, gnawing at the end of his treat. The boy was a reader. _Like Rhaegar_. Jon mentally admonished himself. He had to stop thinking that the boy was Rhaegar. True, he had his face, but he was his own man.

"You don't think Rhaenys is alive, do you?" he blurted out suddenly. "I mean, I'm alive. Isn't it possible that my sister might be alive, too?"

Jon shook his head. This was not the first time he'd asked that question. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. Your sister was killed by the Lord of Casterly Rock."

"Yes. But I had a dream last night," he murmured, reverting back to Rhaegar. "I dreamt of a girl with silver hair and lilac eyes and when she turned around I saw she looked like me."

"You are the last, Your Grace."

"I am not. When I come to Westeros I will seek him first and I'll make him a Targaryen. I don't care if he's a bastard. He's my father's son so he's my brother. He's not dead. I know it."

No, Robert most likely killed him. But his king was still a stubborn boy and no words would persuade him to abandon the bastard. If it were true the Prince Viserys and the pregnant queen had died during the storm, then the bastard was the only kin Aegon had left. He would do, seeing as there was no one else.

Perhaps the boy was alive. Lyanna Stark had been much loved by Robert, so much he'd started a war for her. Maybe he'd spared the boy. If not the boy had an uncle, that honorable man Eddard Stark. Maybe he'd been raised by Eddard in memory of Lyanna. It was possible.

"We will find your heir as soon as possible, Your Grace," he assured. He smiled as the boy's face lit up.

_So much like Rhaegar but also so different._


	3. You Look Great When I'm Fucked Up

**EDDARD**

"Do you remember the lad's father?" Robert asked, belching at the end of the question. Drunk, he waved his hands a lot during conversations. The wine in the skin in his hand sloshed and spilled on the lap of one of the Lannister squires. The sellsword grinned at the growing stain. _Smiling. Ever smiling._

"He sang in your bloody feast for me!" Robert chuckled. "The lad sang when Tommen had his nameday. And I think he's been in some other tourneys. Now he's traded his woodharp for a bow!"

The idea amused Robert. On cue, the Lannister squires tittered, albeit warily. The sellsword's smile grew and now his eyes gleamed with something that unsettled Ned. All sellswords looked unworthy but something about the youth made Ned touch the hilt of his dagger. The boy caught him in the act. He did not look frightened. In fact he seemed to find it hilarious.

"He's surprisingly skilled for a whoreson," Robert continued, his words even more slurred. The king let out a hiccup that shook his jowls and caused him to spill more wine on Lancel Lannister. The poor lad tried to look like he did not mind, but the stain had spread to his crotch. The red was a stark contrast against his white breeches, and it gave him the appearance that he was a boy who had moon's blood. The sellsword's shoulders shook slightly from holding in laughter. "He's better than any of my bowmen." Robert clapped the boy's back with a meaty hand. "And all of them are much older than the lad."

The bow in his hand, Ned guessed, was his own. It was painted gold and so slim it looked like it could snap at the squeeze of a hand. But appearances were deceiving. Ned had seen the boy in the practice yard before Robert summoned him in. It was either the bow was cleverly made or its master was just incredibly skilled in archery. Each arrow he'd notched and loosed found its target. His prowess in the art had even drawn a small crowd, most of them women who'd doted on the comely lad as soon as he'd stepped foot in King's Landing.

Even his own daughter had feelings for the boy. Ned had overheard Sansa and her friend Jeyne arguing about the sellsword's age. He had not even been a day in King's Landing and yet both girls had thought of marrying him. They were only childish whims to Ned's relief. Comely he might be but the boy was just a common sellsword and was probably only the product of a whore and a hedge knight. Sansa could not be so blind as to not see how lowborn he was.

But even commoners had names. "Theon," the boy responded as soon as the question left Ned's lips. His turquoise eyes flashed with something akin to malice. "My name's Theon, m'lord."

Theon. Something nagged at him, telling him that the name was important and so was its owner. But the answer seemed to be trapped behind a wall of glass. There but out of his reach.

There were things more important than the identity of a common sellsword, he decided. He turned to the king. "Robert, I have to talk to you." He made sure that alone was underneath the words. With a wave of one of his plump hands, the squires and Theon left the room. But Ned doubted they were truly alone. Varys and his little birds were always near at hand. Well, what he had to say Varys undoubtedly knew already. And had Littlefinger and the others not gone out, Ned would have told them what was troubling him.

"I wish Joffrey could be more like that boy," Robert said. He shook his head sadly. "My son's a stranger to me, Ned. The lad's father's lucky to have him. That's why I hired the boy to keep an eye on Joff, maybe teach him a thing or two. He's a good sword as well, you know."

Joffrey Baratheon was a brat but Ned doubted he could be as dangerous as Theon. "I don't trust him. And once he's paid by someone richer, he'll leave your service. He's still a sellsword, after all."

"Ned, you never trust anyone. You Starks and your cautious arses." He offered Ned some wine which he politely refused. "I've gotten to know the boy at Tommen's nameday and I find him trustworthy. And what would Tywin Lannister do with a lad like him? He's already got Gregor Clegane for defense."

He downed the last of his wine. "So what is it that you have to say?" the king asked, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. "I bloody hope it's not about your daughter's wolf."

Lady. Ned had had her buried in Winterfell. Even now, Sansa would not look at him. He wanted to tell her that it was not his wish, that it was the queen's command and the queen had Robert wrapped around her little finger. But Ned knew that Sansa wouldn't listen to him. She was only a little girl who wanted to marry a boy who would someday be king. Love blinded all.

"It's not about Lady," Ned replied. "I hear Victarion Greyjoy's having some trouble. The Silence was seen near the Iron Islands."

Robert snorted. Ned had expected that. "Leave the Greyjoys be, Ned. It's been years and none of the squids have raised their arms against us. Even now they're still repairing their rock."

"Euron Greyjoy is a dangerous man, Robert," Ned argued. It was not about the children. Yet even as he talked the scene of the battle flew to his mind. Maron and Rodrik had not been killed by Ice yet Ned felt as if he had done the job. And the little ones. Ned had learned that Asha Greyjoy was alive and well at Harlaw with their mother. Victarion would keep her safe and give the Seastone Chair to her sons, seeing as he had none of his own. It was the boy Ned felt guilty for. Had the tower not burned, Ned would have made the child his ward. Alannys had gone mad after the deaths of her three sons and shortly after the rebellion, Balon threw himself off one of the bridges connecting the towers—a death that Ned was sure had something to do with the Crow's Eye. Robert felt no guilt, of course. The bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen had been laid at his feet and Robert had only shown indifference whereas Ned could not tear his eyes away from the bloody pulp that was the prince's head. What was another dead child to a man who'd been killing before his time?

"Victarion isn't daft enough to let his brother seat their chair," Robert answered. There was finality to his voice. "Their problem isn't ours."

"By rights Euron should be on it because he's older. But I agree that you'd be stupid to let that man near any throne. Since Balon sent him away, Euron's been plundering in the Free Cities in his ship of mutes and mongrels. Some of Victarion's men are beginning to grumble that Euron might be a better king than him. They're hungry. Most of the Iron Islands haven't recovered from the battle—"

"It isn't our problem, Ned!" Robert growled. "They can join their Drowned God for all I care."

Ned sighed. Robert had a point, though. There were more pressing matters, the debt to the Iron Bank for example. He pushed the Greyjoys out of his mind and settled for coin.

**MANCE'S**

King's Landing had not changed. The smell of the city was familiar and Theon was able to adjust to the summer heat without difficulty. The streets were busy with oxcarts and gold cloaks, most of whom swore at the little children that ran amok. He passed by a brothel that was alive with the laughter of whores and customers. A woman with straw-colored hair leaned out a window, her bodice unlaced and revealing her heavy breasts. She sang down to Theon, offering company and the heat between her legs. Theon smiled and blew her a kiss. But he would do no more. Not yet, anyway.

He sat on a barrel and waited. Soon enough, he heard the sound of men shouting orders. The crowd parted and Joffrey Baratheon rode past him. The prince's brows furrowed and there was a scowl on his pouty lips. His hand was wrapped in silk cloth; a bite from a direwolf, Theon had learned. The prince's sworn shield, the dog Sandor Clegane, rode behind him, his helm under one arm. The blackened flesh of one side of his face fascinated and disgusted Theon at the same time. A burned man was not a mystery to him. In the wild, their dead were burned to prevent them from coming back to life. But it was the first time Theon had ever seen a living man sporting burned flesh.

"Your Grace?" Theon had approached him when Joffrey dismounted. The prince stared at him suspiciously. _He looks like the Kingslayer. _The boy was golden-haired and green-eyed, his build as sinewy as his uncle's. Or father's. _Incest is not an uncommon thing. _Craster himself had proved that.

The Hound moved in front of Joffrey. "What is it?" he muttered gruffly. His eyes narrowed at the bow that was slung across his back and at the dirk at his belt. Robert had instructed him to watch out for the two princes, an ironic thing, really. The younger of the two was in the library with Grand Maester Pycelle. He was of no interest to Theon. This one however was the one who's throat he would slit while under the guise as his protector. Him and his father, then Lord Stark and his son.

"I have my dog," the prince scorned. "I don't need you."

"The king has commanded it."

Stupid king, Theon thought. Killing him was easy. The boy, too, even though he had his sworn shield. It was Lord Stark Theon was wary of. Both Baratheons had soft heads, but the Starks were a cunning folk and constantly vigilant.

"I'll tell my mother—"

"The queen is a busy woman and would be pleased to see how many men are concerned for the safety of her child."

Joffrey muttered something about already being near a man grown, but Theon paid no attention to it. He trailed after the prince, a little behind Sandor Clegane who growled at him menacingly. It made him remember Rattleshirt and he sniggered, earning glares from the two. "Shut up or I'll have Ser Ilyn cut your tongue," the prince threatened. When Theon refused to drop his smile, Joffrey ordered the Hound to knock his teeth in.

"Do it and you're dead," Theon told the man. The Hound was taller and broader of build but Theon had learned strength from the wildings and speed from Braavos, where Mance had made him stay for a year. A wise Braavosi had trained him how to learn of a man's fears with a glance. The Hound's was easy to figure out—anyone with a burn like that would fear fire for life. Theon stared at him until Clegane lowered his fist. "Apologies, Your Grace, but the King Robert hired me as a sworn sword, not a whipping boy."

Joffrey gritted his teeth but said nothing. _He's afraid of me. _The Hound continued to scowl. _The Hound isn't, but at least he sees I'm not a weakling. _

They reached the Red Keep. Joffrey turned to him. "I'm in the castle and I have my dog. Go bother someone else. I'll have need of you when I leave these gates."

"As you command, Your Grace." Theon walked away, his hand on his dagger. He could feel their eyes on him, even when they were out of sight. He would keep close watch on Joffrey. And when the time was right he could arrange an accident.

There were guards everywhere but none of them seemed to be at their stations. A squire, one of those who'd watched him at the targets, waved at him. His stableboy friend grinned at Theon. The smile faded into amazement. Theon craned his head to the sky where people where pointing at a grey eagle. It could have been any eagle but these were not common in King's Landing. Theon whistled and the eagle spun in a circle. _Orell is watching me. _Theon grimaced, hating Mance for it. _Does he think I will fail him?_

An arrow flew, all of a sudden, missing the eagle by an inch. The bird cried furiously before disappearing behind the turrets.

"Seven hells." A boy. No, a girl. Theon saw how the hips curved and noticed how the features were softer. She could be no more than ten but she already held a bow and had a quiver of arrows across her back. A slim sword that appeared to be a miniature of the Braavosi ones was at her belt.

Stark, Theon thought. The child had the long face, wary grey eyes, and dark brown hair of her father. Lord Stark had brought along his two daughters. She was undoubtedly one of them.

"You shouldn't have done that, my lady." The title was all wrong. Theon had been raised by wildings and fostered by Braavosi, but he knew that high born ladies didn't wear dirty riding leathers. Nor were they barefoot and had unkempt hair.

The child stared at him defiantly, but her eyes widened when she saw his bow. "That's a different kind of bow." She grinned. "Are you the one they're talking about? The really good archer?"

"Yes. And you're Lord Stark's eldest daughter."

"I'm Arya." She lifted her foot and scratched it. "And I'm the younger one. That's Sansa." She pointed her finger at a group of girls gathered around a singer less talented than Theon. One of them had the same coloring as Arya but her finger was pointed at the girl next to the brunette. The sister was a girl of eleven, tall for her age with fair skin and long auburn hair. Theon nearly dropped his bow when she turned her head, revealing her face to him.

"My lady?" Theon swallowed. "Who are your siblings?"

"There's six of us. I'm nine, Sansa's eleven. Bran's seven, Rickon's four, and Robb and Jon are fourteen. Shouldn't you know that? Even peasants know that."

_Seven hells. _Theon pinched the bridge of his nose. Sansa Stark was a female version of Robb Stark. The same Robb Theon had slept with outside the Last Hearth. The same Robb Theon had become a little fond of. Robb who was kissed by fire was the boy Theon was planning to kill.

Arya tugged at his sleeve. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Do you need a maester?"

"I'm fine," he lied. _I fucked a fucking Stark_. The thought would not leave him.

"Can you teach me how to shoot an arrow? Syrio's already teaching me the water dance but I want to learn long range."

"Not now." He brushed her off. "I have a lot of things to deal with."

He didn't know where he was going. He pushed men aside, ignoring their angry calls and jests. His dirk seemed to dig into his hip, reminding him of its presence. Robb. Theon thought of his face, of the way he bit his lip when he was nervous. He remembered how much fun he'd had that night, how it felt like he wasn't just a quick fuck. And he remembered cutting off a bit of Robb's hair. Theon had held on to it for weeks until the pouch got lost on one of their hunts.

_I can't kill him. I can kill everyone else but not him. _

He stopped walking. He found himself back inside the castle, facing a tapestry that bore the sigil of House Baratheon. Someone was walking toward him. Theon froze at the flowery scent that permeated his nose.

"They say 'what is dead may never die' in the Iron Islands."

The man was still bald and smelling of lilacs. He smiled at Theon, his powdered hands clasped over his stomach. Theon's fingers twitched and moved to the hilt of his dirk.

"My little birds were correct in saying we had a guest. You look like your Uncle Euron, my lord, but because he's been gone for so long no one can find out who you are. I'm so glad I have sources everywhere. The _Silence _dropped by Pentos a hundred times already."

Theon licked his lips. "You took me from the tower. Who are you?"

The man giggled. "My name is Vary and I am but a mere spider, Theon Greyjoy." His eyes widened at the dirk. "Careful, my lord. My little birds are always watching and one word of your arrival can spoil all your plans.

"I'm so happy you're alive. Balon's only living son. I curse the man who failed to take you away but praise the man who raised you as his pawn. You're…father is a good man. You've grown up handsome, talented, and skilled at arms. But you're still a pawn."

"Where did you plan to take me?" Theon grabbed the front of his silken robes. Varys stared at him nervously. "All those years ago…Where?"

Varys giggled again, his voice sounding not unlike a girl's. "To your sister."

"My sister is dead."

"And you were, too. But krakens are harder to kill than lions, stags, and direwolves."

**NOTE: **Ugh, too short for my liking but I'm so tired (just finished with my third day of college). I won't be writing Willas and Aegon until the middle which is kind of a bum because I like writing Jon and Aegon's POVS.


	4. The Broken Antlers

**Note: Gods, this one is loooooong.**

**MANCE'S**

The dragons and stags poured into his hand, glittering under the midmorning sun. A younger, much slimmer King Robert grinned at him, a thumb raised in approval. He slipped him inside his pocket along with Aerys Targaryen, then proceeded to the next victim. The man was portly and his chins shook when he guffawed. He crept up to him slowly until the point was on his side. His knife cut through the man's pouch like the leather was nothing but mere cheese. More coins poured out, and still no one noticed.

Theon hid the knife back in his sleeve and smiled at a group of giggling maids. One waved at him before returning her attention to the mummers on stage. The crowd roared as a slender youth spit flames out of his mouth. Theon pulled back from the crowd, his pockets weighed down with today's catch.

The mummers were performing a skit about the tragedy of Summer Hall. The story was not new to him, but he found that many nobles liked the cheap entertainment. Now Theon was many things, but he only resorted to theft when he was desperate. And his reason was dire enough to use the skill Mance had taught him.

Even with the number of people, Theon still felt them watching. He caught a fellow pickpocket staring at him, a dirty peasant boy who was most likely one of Varys' little birds. The boy grinned at him and laughed when Theon raised his hand to make a rude gesture. Smiling, the child went back to his work and Theon to the wineskin he bought with King Robert.

This was impossible. Theon couldn't make a single move without being reported to the eunuch. Killing varys would be easy. Heck, it might even be fun. But even if he did his identity would still be known. Varys might not serve the king but he was still a member of the council and wont to save his flowery skin.

He would have to go back to Mance. Everyday Orell's eagle circled the area. Sometimes it would drop by a tree and cry at him when he was practicing. Theon often wanted to drive an arrow through the bird. He had more than enough people watching him already.

He was sick of it. He was sick of King's Landing most of all. He could not do as he wished because he'd vowed to the king that he would trail Joffrey like a dog. Theon didn't give a damn about that vow but it was his only cover. And everyday the brat gained confidence until Theon turned into a practice target for swordplay. Threats no longer worked for him because the queen's men watched him day and night. One wrong move and they'd hack off his head for talking back to the stupid brat. Theon had to endure the bruises and harsh words the prince gave him. More than once was he tempted to ignore Varys' warning and wring Joffrey's neck until his face turned black.

He shouldn't be here. Varys had told him his sister was alive. His sister and his mother. Theon could not recall what they looked like. He could only remember his sister holding his hand tightly when the ships came. And his mother had always been weeping. The eunuch had said there was also an uncle in Harlaw, his mother's brother. He should be on a boat to the Iron Islands. His Uncle Victarion might even be dutiful enough to give him the Seastone Chair. Then Mance would still get his wish.

But there were so many eyes.

Theon's only happiness in the city was archery. Even brothels could not excite him and he could hardly sing to himself without attracting an audience. So everyday, when Joffrey had no need of him, he would go to the targets and imagine that it was the prince he was hitting. Sometimes little Arya Stark would join him. She always came with a bow too big for her, a quiver of arrows, and bruises all over her arms. Theon wasn't sure how she got them. Lord Stark did not seem the sort to hit his children.

He did not mind the company of the girl. She reminded him of Ygritte and she always talked of Winterfell. She'd describe everything in detail until Theon could picture a stone castle with twisting stairways and dark corridors. Sometimes she would talk of Robb and this was what Theon liked best.

"He's immature," Arya would say while notching an arrow, "but he's good enough to be the real Lord of Winterfell someday."

I fucked that future Lord of Winterfell, Theon often thought. And he would laugh to himself and Arya would demand why.

Theon seldom saw Sansa which he was glad of. She reminded him too much of Robb. The girl was always followed by her septa or her friend Jeyne Poole. She was the lady that Arya never could be. Theon wondered if the girl knew what Joffrey was really like. He had heard her say that the prince had beautiful lips. Theon often thought Joffrey's lips looked like two worms fucking.

When he was not practicing, he was with the king. King Robert seemed fonder of him that he was of his own children. He would ask Theon to play a few songs before going out to hunt or wench, the latter more often. Theon was even beginning to like the man despite everything he'd done. Lord Stark, however, continued to be aloof. The first time he saw Theon with Arya he called her to him and Aray had not been seen for three days.

_He's only protecting his_ _children. _Had his father done the same thing? They said Balon Greyjoy jumped off a bridge shortly after his brothers-and apparently him-were slain. _Had he loved us so much that he could not bear to part with us? _Theon wished he had never 'died'. Mance was like a father but there were still barriers between them.

The sun was burning down on him and Theon thought he was sweating inside as well because of the wine. These were the days when he missed the cold of realm of the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Sometimes King's Landing reminded him of Braavos where Mance had left him when he was one-and-ten. But Braavos had smelled of fish and the salt of sea, and it had been loud and mysterious at the same time. Theon had loved to swim there and chase other children at the canals. King's Landing only fit the former.

Theon thought of seeking Arya's company. Joffrey had no need of him as his mother seemed intent on keeping him in sight. It was because of Lady Stark's abduction of the Imp, the queen and Kingslayer's dwarf brother. Theon had seen him once in one of the feasts he'd performed in. He did not know how such a little man could think of murdering a crippled child. Tyrion Lannister was shit ugly, but he did not look as evil as people thought.

One of the guards called out a challenge as he entered the gate, but he waved him off. He had become famous in the Red Keep and even outside it, something Theon did not like at all. Except for Braavos, he had never stayed at a place for more than a week. And it had already been months. If Varys had not interfered, he would have been well on his way to Pyke by now.

As he neared the targets, Theon saw Sansa Stark arguing with Septa Mordance. Her long auburn hair was tied in the many-braided fashion of the southern ladies, and she wore a pale blue silk gown that complemented her eyes. She will be even more beautiful someday, Theon thought. He would have been attracted to the girl had she been more interesting. Sansa was too much of a proper lady. Theon wanted a fighter, someone with Arya's personality, maybe. He had been attracted to Ygritte for years and had even slept with her many times before boredom took over them. Most likely she was laying with someone new. Ygritte was like that with her men.

Notch, draw, loose. He kept at it until his fingers began to scream with pain. Theon felxed his hand to keep his joints from stiffening then stepped back to observe his handiwork.

"To Pycelle! Bring him to the Grand Maester!"

Theon looked over his shoulder. Bloodied men were poruing in the gates, some of them carrying strangely-shaped sacks. Lord Stark was strapped to the back of a horse, his leg looking bent and bloody. Theon approached one of the onlookers.

"Kingslayer's work," a steward muttered. "He blames the Hand for the Imp's abduction."

"Heard he's fled."

"Aye. That Jaime Lannister's got shit for honor."

Theon frowned. But Jaime Lannister had already slain a king. What was a Hand to him? Theon wiped the sweat off his brow and went to the castle.

More news about the Kingslayer was exchanged while Lord Stark's wounds were tended by Pycelle. Sansa was distressed and could be found praying in the godswood. Arya was missing.

He soon found her outside, beating on a tree with her bravos sword. Theon waited until she'd grown weary. She flung her sword down when she saw him. "They killed Jory," she snarled. Her eyes were rimmed red and there were tear tracks on her dirty face. Theon said nothing.

Jory. He was the captain of Lord Stark's guards, the comical man who'd teased Theon about being a virgin. He had not known Jory well personally, but Arya had often talked of him. "He was like our second father," she said," and he was always teasing us. He helped me chase Nymeria off so they wouldn't kill her like they did Lady.

"They hurt my father, too. His leg's broken and he's got a fever and no one will let me see him." She kicked at a pebble then rubbed at an eye with a grubby fist. "I'll hurt them with Needle."

"You're too young to fight." Theon picked up the sword. The balance was wrong for him but it looked just like the one he'd used so many years ago. "Besides, a highborn lady pays people to do her fighting for her."

Her brows furrowed. "Are you saying girls can't fight?" She glared at him before landing a kick on his shin. Theon yelped at the burst of pain, dropping Needle as he hopped on one foot. "You stupid," Arya growled. She grabbed her sword then ran off before Theon could explain himself.

The next time Theon saw Lord Stark he was using a staff and wincing every time he put pressure on his broken leg. Arya pestered him for days until the girl was satisfied he wouldn't die on her. Sansa's visits to the godswood ended and she was back to worshiping her betrothed. The only person who'd changed was Lord Stark himself. Theon would catch the man staring at him with wonder. He would sometiems stop to ask him how his day had gone and Theon would tell him all, omitting the part about Joffrey treating him like a whipping boy.

One day he called for Theon in the Tower of the Hand. Knowing he wasn't being summoned to sing 'The Bear and Maiden Fair', Theon arrived with only his dirk to defend himself. It would be an unfair match even without the dirk seeing how Lord Stark could barely moved without wincing in pain. But still Theon kept it at his side. he did not trust Stark at all.

"Sit down," the warden of the north ordered, without looking up from the heavy tome he was reading. Theon settled himself on a stool and waited.

Robb looks nothing like him, he observed. The Lord of Winterfell had Arya's long, grey-eyed face and dark brown hair and little else with his eldest. Theon heard he looked more like his bastard Snow than he did Robb which only added to the scandal. This man looked so cold and weary whereas Robb had been full of life, forever half a boy despite everything else.

The book closed with a loud thud. Dust billowed out ofthe pages, nearly making Theon sneeze. He held his breath until the threat passed.

"Where were you born, Theon?" Lord Stark asked. His eyes searched his face. Theon's stomach lurched.

"In a brothel in Oldtown," Theon replied, using the usual excuse. He did his best to keep a straight face. "My mother was a whore. I was cast away when my mother died of the pox and raised here and there until my father learned of my existence."

Lord Stark scowled. Then he opened the book once more and flicked to a page. Theon froze as he read the name Greyjoy. "Balon Greyjoy," the Hand read, "Black of hair with sea-green eyes. Euron Greyjoy, black of hair with sea-green eyes." The book closed. "Have you ever seen the Iron Islands, Theon?"

_He knows_. Theon's heart was beating frantically inside his chest. His fingers brushed against the hilt of his dirk. "I-"

"I guessed it after I saw Robert's bastards." Lord Stark rubbed his chin. "I can hardly remember the Crow's Eye's face but I do recall that he was the comeliest of Quellon's children. And black hair and sea-green eyes are common to House Greyjoy. Your eyes are unique. Euron has more bastards than he knows what to do with and he's never acknowledged them. He has a few working in his _Silence _but there are many more out there. Did you know of your birth before this?"

_He thinks I'm my uncle's bastard. _Theon shook his head, too nervous to speak. "I'm...I'm not," he began but Lord Stark wouldn't even let him finish.

"I've always worried about the Greyjoys after Balon's rebellion ended. I've always felt guilty." Theon was surprised to see that Lord Stark's eyes had softened. "I killed three of his children. Not directly but still. Rodrik adn Maron weren't innocent but that poor boy didn't deserve to die. The tower burned and Asha and her mother got away in time ,but the boy was caught by the flames. I would have made him a ward and raised him alongside my sons."

"As a hostage," Theon muttered.

Lord Stark was taken aback. "I'd keep him ass a ward and treat him like mine own. Why make an innocent boy frightened?"

"I...I don't know."

"He would have been good friends with my children. Robb became fond of Jon easily." Theon sensed the pain and grief the other felt at the bastard's name.

"You're a good lad," Stark continued. "You do your duties well and you've befriended my Arya. You're a Greyjoy-there's no mistaking it. And a bastard as well. But you do not have the harsh nature of both."

"I am a Greyjoy," Theon blurted out, startling Lord Stark. Shut up, a voice hissed. It was too soon. But he could not stop himself. "I'm a Greyjoy but not who you think."

Lord Stark opened his mouth but the words never came. All of a sudden the door slammed open and in came Lord Renly, bloodied and pale-faced. Theon could see the whites around his eyes and his hands were shaking. "My lord," he cried. "The king-Robert-"

Lord Stark was up in moments and Theon scrambled out of the room. The servants were running about, their voices panicked whispers, and Theon could smell blood, sharp and cruel in the air.

They summoned him later, the last visitor of the king. Theon reeled at the scent of death and nearly dropped his lute. He wanted to go back but two of the Kingsguard stood behind him. Aerys Oakheart looked shaken and his eyes caught Theon's. The knight nodded a little.

"Lad," the king called feebly. He lay in bed, his skin already the color of old porridge. The furs were pulled over hsi chest to hide the hole the boar's tusks had made. At his bedside was the king's family. The children were weeping, Joffrey scowling, and the queen looked strangely triumphant.

Theon kneeled before him. "Your Grace."

"Bugger that," King Robert wheezed. His hand fell on Theon's head, heavy and clammy and wet with blood. "Be...be a good boy...as song, lad."

Theon sang the first line of 'A Cask of Ale' which had always been the king's favorite. But this time he was cut short. "Sad," the king demanded. He coughed out a glob o f blood. "I'm leavin' this world...best...make it sad."

I wanted to kill you, Theon thought as his fingers pressed on the strings. _But I don't think I want to kill anyone anymore. I'm sorry._

His fingers moved and his lips parted. The king closed his eyes and did not wake up after the last line of 'The Mermaid's Lament'. Theon rose and watched as Pycelle checked his pulse. The queen cried silently, his children bawled. Joffrey's eyes caught his and they gleamed with malice.

Theon turned around and did not look back once.

* * *

**THE LORD OF WINTERFELL**

Slash. Cut. Parry.

The blade glimmered in the sun before it was brought down. With one swipe the straw target's head rolled off its body. It landed at Shaggydog's feet, who quickly snatched it in his jaws and tore the thing apart.

Robb set the sword down and tilted his head so the sun fell on his face. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and slid down his neck, pooling in his collarbone. He raised an arm above his head to pop the joint.

"I want to practice, too." Rickon eyed the sword greedily. His little brother was dressed in a doublet and breeches in the Stark colors but it had turned brown with mud and dust. Bran, who was sitting next to him, looked more like a proper lordling.

Robb pointed at the tourney swords. 'You can go play," he said and Rickon was off. Bran stayed where he was, watching his little brother forlornly. He misses walking, Robb thought. Bran hardly complained to him but Robb could see that he hated life as a cripple. There was nothing he could do however. Bran would just have to deal with it.

"Hungry, Bran?" He knelt in front of him. Summer raised his head and licked his hand with a rough tongue. Robb scratched the direwolf behind its ears. The wolf's fur was softer than Grey Wind's and also glossier. "Maester Luwin's still tending to the ravens. You want to sneak down the kitchens before your lessons?"

Bran regarded him miserably. Despite his Tully coloring he had the long face and gravity of the Starks. A little like their father but more comely. Like their Uncle Brandon. Robb had not had the chance to meet him but his mother often said Bran looked like his namesake.

"I'm not hungry," the boy told him. He stared at his feet, his silly useless feet. "When's Mother coming home?"

Mother is travelling with the Imp in her clutches, Robb wanted to say but could not. Instead he took his brother's hand in his own and rubbed warmth into the soft palm. "Mother will be here soon," he promised. "And when you're strong enough, you may go to King's Landing and stay with Arya and Sansa and Father. Would you like that?"

"But you'll stay here. You and Rickon."

"Rickon is much too young to enter the king's court. And I am the lord here while father is away."

"Then I'm not going anywhere." He crossed his arms and gave Robb a stubborn look. "I wish they'd never gone south and Jon was here. Starks belong in the north."

_Too true. _Robb brushed his hair back and kissed his forehead. "You are wise beyond your years, little brother," he said then summoned Hodor to take Bran inside. Rickon dropped his sword immediately and yanked on Robb's sleeve, asking for a pick up. With one swoop he gathered the giggling boy in his arms. Bran stayed silent at Hodor's back. "We'll go hunting again," he told Bran as Rickon nuzzled his neck. "Once your saddle is fixed we'll go back to the woods."

Surprisingly, that seemed to please him. "Can I shoot?"

Robb swallowed hard, remembering the wildings. He'd killed all of them save for the woman who's yeilded. _He could have died. _"If you please," he said slowly, "but only when there are guards with you. And never go astray."

He remembered the wildings, their faces dirty and their teeth rotting. He wondered how Jon was faring? If wildings had managed to escape the black brothers then surely the Wall was in need of men. He would have to send a letter to King Robert and convince him to send more abled men to the Wall. If the wildings poured in it was the north they'd raid first.

Bran nodded solemnly when he saw the pensive expression on his face. "I promise."

"Good."

He put Rickon down then proceeded to the bathhouse. It was empty. Usually there were guards in the bath, complaining about their companions or exchanging tales about brothels while Robb bathed. The lack of people was one of the few changes Robb liked. Grime and sweat disappeared in the hot water. Robb sighed happily as the steam rose and clouded his surroundings. He closed his eyes and stayed there until the water became too cold for comfort. His skin was pale and wrinkled when he rose, his hair dripping as he padded to his chambers.

The halls were silent. Robb missed the noise. When they were still complete, one heard Arya and Sansa squabbling, their lord father talking to his men. He missed hearing their mother's scoldings and Jon's stupid japes. When Bran still walked, one heard their lady mother's shriek. And the guards would run to the tower and coax the lordling down. The castle had always felt small with their crowd but now it loomed large and cold and empty.

His room was located on the third floor, two doors down Jon's. It was a large room and furnished well, but he sledom slept alone in it. During cold nights, his brothers joined him and they'd stay up and frighten each other with Old Nan's stories until dawn broke. Even now he shared his bed with Rickon. But Bran no longer joined them. His little brother kept to himself nowadays.

He pushed open the heavy door. It was warm and his bed called invitingly, but there were things to do. He moved to the table where the maps and scrolls were, pushing aside messages of the village people. He picked up a letter from Sansa. The parchment was stained and crumpled but Robb kept it still. Arya had written as well and Jon once. But never their father. Robb knew why. There were already so many things to do as a lord. What more when you were the Hand and had a lazy king?

He was dressing when Maester Luwin announced himself. Robb bid him enter. The old man held a scrap of parchment in his hands. He looked shaken and his steps toward him were small and hesitant. "My lord," he said then pressed the paper in his hand.

Robb's eyes widened. "What is the meaning of this?" he yelled. His hand closed around the paper. Sansa's writing but the queen's words. He gritted his teeth. "The king is dead, my lord father is charged with treason, and Joffrey sits on the Iron Throne? What madness has befallen?"

The maester did not reply but Robb did not expect one. He pushed past the man and went to the Great Hall. To his surprise, three of his father's bannermen were there, talking in hushed voices. _They heard first. _The men bowed low when they saw him but their eyes flickered with annoyance.

"War!" the Greatjon growled when Robb told him what the message contained. "Swear fealty to the brat king? Never!"

The huge man almost bowled over a Hornwood when he moved to wield his greatsword. It was an ugly thing and usually needed two hands to be raised, but the Greatjon required only one. Robb choked down his fear of the enormous Umber.

"Keep your sword, my lord," he said coolly. "I have not yet made my decision."

"You will have your father rot in prison then?" The man had pale eyes and a voice so soft it was hard to hear him. Robb liked him not.

"No," Robb answered. He summoned all that his father had taught him in dealing with the northern lords. "There will be no decision until I've contacted the rest of my father's bannermen. In the meantime, you are welcome to stay here."

"There is a boy king on the throne," the Greatjon muttered.

"He is our rightful king." The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. "And calling for war is rebellious."

"Your father is in chains and your sisters are hostages." Roose Bolton stared at him for a long time.

"I need time to think."

With their leave, he sought out his brothers. Rickon was having his bath but Bran was in the rookery. His brother sat on a stool while Hodor waited patiently on a bench. "Snow!" a raven screamed as Robb entered. Several picked up his cry. One kept yelling for whores, something Jory had taught it.

_He's dead. _Robb remembered now. _The Lannisters killed him along with the othes. They've taken my father and sisters captive. _

Was there even a choice?

Bran looked worried when he told him what had happened. "But he's hurt his leg," the boy argued. "They shouldn't treat him like that."

"Our bannermen ask for war." A raven flew to his shoulder and nipped his ear affectionately. "War!" it echoed. _You too._

"I don't want you to go, Robb." Bran clutched his arm, his eyes swimming with tears. "Rickon and I need you here."

The raven pecked at his head. Robb knocked it off his shoulder. "I don't have a choice."

"Then we'll go with you."

"No." He cupped his cheek then rubbed at the crease on his forehead. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. When I go, you'll be lord."

"I don't want..."

"You're better than me, Bran, and you know it." He pressed his lips on the boy's head. "Do it for me?"

Reluctantly, Bran nodded. Rickon proved harder. When Robb told him his plan the boy wept and clung to him right in the presence of Lord Bolton and the Greatjon. Both lords looked at him with mistrust and Robb had the urge to fight them with swords. He would have to find a way to prove to them he wasn't a green boy.

Grey Wind helped him with that. He was feasting the northern lords when all of a sudden a highly intoxicated Greatjon rose and threw threats at his direction. The man was loyal to the Starks and even acted like a father to Robb and his siblings. But this was before the north had been threatened by the Lannisters.

The man screamed when the wolf leaped on the table and locked its jaws around his hand. Robb whistled and Grey Wind went back to him, jowls wet with blood.

"Your meat is bloody tough!" the Greatjon roared, laughing jovially despite his missing fingers. The northern lords laughed with him and Robb did too, albeit nervously. His eyes swept over the room and found Roose Bolton's. The man smiled the softest of smiles and raised his cup to him. Robb grinned back.

Some would die in the war. And Robb prayed that Bolton would be included.

* * *

**THE LOYAL SERVANT**

The waves reminded him of the Trident even though the river was a torrent of brown water, while the sea was calm and held no trace of war. The sun shone high above and the waves glistened with its light. From where he stood he heard the joyful cry of his king. A quarell whizzed past his head, missing his ear by inches. It was immediately swallowed by the water.

"Sorry, Jon." Aegon's hair was matted to his forehead and his cheeks were flushed from the exertion. There was a tear on his shirt which already looked far too threadbare for a sellsword's son. The crossbow Illyrio had sent him was being loaded by one of the three servants on board. "I was testing it."

Illyrio had sent a hundred of gifts a week earlier for the lad's nameday. The room they shared was loaded with foreign books, boxes of sweets, casks of ale, clothes from Tyrosh and Myr, and weapons of every kind. There was even a crown in the shape of a dragon that curled around the king's forehead, but this he seldom wore. It was the games he loved best, the puzzles and books filled with riddles that had come all the way from Lys. When he was not attending his lessons or learning of the Faith, the king could be found at the deck, beating people in cyvasse.

His king had not improved. Though he was intelligent and skilled in arms, he was childish and willful. Jon had done his best to teach him to be more mature but Illyrio's coddling thwarted all his efforts. Despite having a black temper, the prince was innocent, still green as summer grass. Jon feared for him when the time came to take King's Landing. His men might not respect him if he behaved so.

"Careful with that, Your Grace," he warned. He noticed the bravos swords that hung at his side. Too many swords yet the boy needed only one. It was past time, Jon decided. He'd denied him the sword for a long time for fear that Aegon had the taint. Fortunately, he was just a little spoiled. That would changed once they laid siege to Westeros. Or at least, he hoped.

And it would beat any present of Illyrio's.

"Follow me, Your Grace. I have to show you something."

"What is it?" Spoiled with a short attention span. This was all Illyrio's doing. But at least his curiosity led him to learn many things, even those not fit for a king. He had learned how to cook and sew his own clothes. he had learned the Dothraki tongue and several other languages, some long unused. His greatest interest was the Wall which Jon himself had never seen. It did not snow in the Free Cities. The boy knew all the names of the Lord Commanders and could even recite the list backwards. Aegon hoped to stand on top of it one day and see the world beyond. Jon did not even know it he could bring him to Westeros, let alone the Wall.

Aegon left the crossbow with the servant then followed Jon to their cabin. The king's side was so cluttered you had to watch your step lest your foot land on a spiked mace. Ser Rolly had made that mistake several times.

The chest was made of oak and had a heavy lid. It was the one thing Jon told the boy to never touch. Curiosity piqued, Aegon took a seat on the edge of the featherbed adn watched Jon open the chest. He pushed his things aside until his fingers brushed against the hilt. Carefully he lifted the sword and handed it to the boy.

"It was your father's." Jon's heart swelled with pride as Aegon unsheathed the longsword. The blade was Valyrian steel and black as night. The hilt was leather and its pommel was a dragon with its mouth open, its eyes red rubies and its scales inlaid with silver. This was the sword Rhaegar had raised against Robert Baratheon. Had Jon not taken it away, the sword would have been melted and placed on the Iron Throne. For years he regretted taking it from the prince, but now that it was in the hands of a new master, he thought it was the best decision he'd ever made.

"The balance is fine, I hope?"

Aegon grinned. "it's brilliant! I've never seen anything like it!"

"It's Valyrian steel, the best there is. Only Valyrian steel can cut through a man's mail with one swipe." The boy slid into a Tyrosh fighting stance and jabbed. Jon leaped back. "Careful, Your Grace. That sword's been known to kill half an army."

"Does it have a name?" Aegon moved his hand back and forth so the ripples in the blade would gleam. "All great swords have a name."

"It's up to you to name it. Your father never thought of that."

Rhaeger had thought of it often when he got the sword, but once the war began, finding a name for it became the least of his problems. The blade had been blessed with the blood of his enemies, but it had never been called anything but Rhaegar's sword.

Aegon turned it in his hands, pondering. When his deep purple eyes lit up, Jon knew he had the answer. "Balerion!" he yelled. "Aegon the Conqueror took Westeros with Balerion the Black Dread, didn't he?"

"And Aegon the sixth will take Westeros with an all new Balerion." He ruffled the boy's hair affectionately. Jon's eyes fell on his pants which barely covered his shins. He was tall and growing still. Rhaegar had been a tall man.

"Will we go out tonight?" he sheathed the sword, tossing the bravos to the side. "I want to go to the market."

"It's your nameday," he said, doing his best to hide the irritation he felt. He did not enjoy letting the public view his king. It was not safe.

But he could not deny him. The boy was fifteen already and restless. Soon, he'd seek a bride. Not too soon, Jon hoped. According to Illyrio, Daenerys Targaryen had wed Khal Drogo. If the khal died Aegon could still marry his aunt. This was what was best for him, though Jon often thought the boy needed a stronger woman. Daenerys was still a child and so was the king.

_I musn't worry yet. He still chooses swords over women. _"Now go bother Duck," he said. "But only for an hour. We'll be landing soon."

An hour proved too short for the king. When the boat moved to the port, he complained. There was a fresh bruise on his cheeks and several more on his arms, but they did not seem to pain him.

The boy insisted on food and Jon quickly asked a local where they could have a good meal. They were directed to a small tavern. Jon ordered the boy to pull up the hood of his coat and keep his knife hidden in his sleeve. He surveyed the crowd then chose an area hidden in shadows.

The meal was spicy crab stew and oysters paired with strong wine. Aegon's elegant fingers pried open an oyster and pulled out the meat. Jon ate everything but for the stew which was too spicy. He ordered a serving wench to bring them water.

"What was my mother like?" Aegon asked as the girl left. Jon had expected this. last night they'd talked about Rhaegar. And the night before Aerys, something Aegon had surprisingly been interested in.

"She was very beautiful and courteous but when not in public, she was just as wild as you." Talking made him remember. Elia had always had women chasing after her, a maester warning her of her frail health. Even when she fell pregnant to Rhaenys, she was still as fierce as Oberyn. Her daughter had undeniably been Rhaegar's, Jon remembered, a quiet girl who loved to frolic the gardens of Dragonstone. Had she lived she would have wed her brother as was the Targaryen custom.

Aegon licked his fingers, greasy with the oysters. "What's Dorne like?" he asked.

Jon had seen Dorne only once. The Sunspear was a busy city, filled with the smell of sea and sand. Light came through painted windows and broke in a million colors on the marble floor. The towers were high with domed roofs that glowed red when the sun set. Jon told him all this and more.

"My uncles and cousins are there," he said when Jon finished. He wiped the last of his stew with a hunk of bread. "Will they ally with me, though? They might think me a mummer."

"You look like a true Targaryen, Your Grace. And Dorne remembers your mother with fondness. They still seek vengeance for her death."

"That I can give them," he answered, defiant as any youth.

This again. Jon suddenly saw Aegon as a six-year-old, his hair dyed green instead of blue. The child had been weeping, all because some of his playmates had called him a bastard. "They told me my mother was a whore," he'd said to Jon. "And my father a raper. It's not true, right?"

Jon had dried his tears and told him again that he was a Targaryen, the rightful king of Westeros. He'd told him also that he was the last of his line and must keep his identity a secret. Aegon had only wept harder. That was the night Jon had told him the secret, that Rhaegar had another son or daughter with a woman that was not his mother. Jon himself did not know it the child was alive. But the idea of having another kin had filled the boy with such delight Jon could not break his heart by telling him his doubts.

"I need to make water," the boy said suddenly. Jon rose to join him but Aegon stopped him. _He's old enough to protect himself . _Hesitantly, Jon sank back in his seat and watched the king go._  
_

"He's dead. I can't believe it." The speaker was a pale-haired man who spoke in the tongue of Lys. His companion cackled with glee. "Killed by a boar, you know," the other said. "And the Hand taken prisoner."

The Hand? Jon sneaked a glance at them.

"A toast to dead King Robert," the Lyseni mocked. They raised their cups and drank deep, laughing.

_Robert is dead. Killed by a boar. And Stark is a prisoner. _

Joy rose inside him but there was also a bitterness to it. It was unfortunate that the boar had gotten to Robert first. Jon had wished many times to kill the man himself and bludgeon his head with his own hammer. But it mattered no more. He was dead! Jon chuckled. This was a lucky day, indeed.

He tossed a coin to the server then went outside to search for his king. He found him, teasing a group of bedraggled children. Rhaegar, he thought as the boy blew a kiss to a little girl.

"Griff," he called and the boy raised his head and grinned at him. Jon grinned as well. Aegon was startled when he suddenly wrapped his arms around him and kissed the top of his head.

"Jon?" he asked, staring up at him with those innocent eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Your Grace." He tousled his hair. "For us, anyway."


End file.
